


Who Tells Your Story (Only a Matter of Time)

by dancer4813



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Chroma Conclave Arc, Future Fic, Hamilton References, Not Canon Compliant, Spoilers through Episode 64, Storytelling, Tal'dorei Campaign, and Hamilton gives me feels, because Critical Role gives me feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancer4813/pseuds/dancer4813
Summary: The Chroma Conclave has fallen, and Emon is bustling with a festival to celebrate the downfall of the mighty beasts who had threatened Exandria. But while many tales of the heroes who slayed the Conclave are incomplete and hyperbolized in their retellings, one woman knows the true story and is willing to share.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been sitting, uncompleted, on my hard drive for nearly a month. I was planning on just letting it sit there until I figured out if/how I wanted to take it anywhere, but then Episode 68 came around, and no spoilers, but I really wanted this to be not proven wrong before it's posted. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy - let me know what you thought about it in a comment below!

It was nearing evening in the city of Emon, the sun’s rays still shining bright and clear over the streets, though the orb dropped lower in the sky with each minute, the lanterns on the thoroughfares soon to be lit with the coming dusk. A crowd gathered in the central square where booths were set up for treats and trinkets, tables placed in small clusters for games of chance and longer rows for eating and drinking contests. The Festival of Heroes was still in swing, and the streets were full of laughter and merriment as the fifth and final day of the festival celebrating the destruction of Thordak, the Cinder King, and his Conclave came to a slow close.

Children rushed about in open courtyards, playing games of pretend where five chose to be dragons and the others fought against them, aiming to take down the “Conclave”. Some wielded sticks that were imagined to be finely crafted bows, swords, or daggers. Some shouted spells or on-the-spot songs that made the “dragons” writhe in agony, shrieking with false pain and real laughter. Some ran past their friends, their hands folded with the first two fingers and thumbs sticking out, the ring and pinkie fingers tucked into the palms, shouting “Boom!” as loudly as they could, causing the “dragons” to roar with indignation or laugh as the imaginary weapon missed its target.

Every so often the dragons would strike back, breathing swaths of “flame”, “acid”, “ice”, “lighting”, or “gas” out at their foes, the adventurers yelling dramatically as they fell to the ground, either getting up to fight again or perishing in battle, only to be resurrected by another fighter with but a touch of the hand.

These games continued until the sun sank below the rooftops of the surrounding shops and houses, casting long shadows onto the groups of adventurers as they finished their games with almighty flourishes of their chosen weapons, the dragons falling in defeat just as their parents came to collect them and head home for the night. Much whining and begging could be heard, for “just one more game, Mother, please”, or “can’t we play for just a bit longer? I think I saw that one twitching!” But the parents were, as parents can be, firm in their decisions and ushered their children away to clean up before bedtime.

The streets emptied slowly, music still playing until darkness fell for good, the only light on the streets that of the softly shimmering lanterns as the citizens of Emon and visitors from near and far gradually made their ways to homes, inn rooms, or taverns. Some went straight to bed, wearied by the day’s celebrations, but others purchased a flagon or tankard and drank to pay homage to those who were lost in the dragons’ attacks on the cities. In more than one tavern stories were told of bravery and loss, of courage and unity in troubled times, and of the adventurers who had led Tal’dorei in the fight against the Chroma Conclave – Vox Machina. All knew of the members of the party, the characters recognizable by the weapons and magics they wielded, even if each telling of the dragons’ defeat was warped by time and retellings.

The Ranger, with her bow of thorns and her faithful bear companion.

The Rogue (in some stories a winged paladin), his daggers faster than light itself.

The Bard, who not only sang ballads that drove the dragons to their knees, but who also wielded a sword that vibrated with the very power of his song.

The Shadow, who breathed only smoke itself and who’s magic with iron caused explosions that ravaged the dragons’ hides.

The Druid, who used her powers over the elements to turn the tides of war.

The Cleric, who wore wings of celestial beauty and who carved the dragons up with a blade of otherworldly power.

The Barbarian, who could grow to the size of a giant at will, and who used just a bloodied axe and his fists to destroy the dragons they faced.

At one tavern in particular, however, the story of Vox Machina was told in full, from unlikely meetings to fighting demons, beasts of the Underdark, Vampires, Dragons, and other adventures after. The storyteller wove an elegant tale of eight adventurers who travelled bravely across the land, praised and scorned, winning some fights and only just scraping past others.

The dragonborn, kind (if a bit pretentious at times), who was lost before his time while he defended his homeland.

The half-elf ranger, with a heart that held a fierce love for gold, but an even stronger love for her family.

The half-elf man, often conflicted in his feelings, but loyal to his goddess, and to those he loved.

The male gnome, who kept morale high at the worst of times, who inspired and healed and made them smile.

The human, from nobility and not afraid to show it, but also wary of the power he held, and always striving to do better, to build instead of destroy.

The half-elf druid, born into leadership, staying on the moral high ground and bringing the others down from high thrones.

The female gnome, a shining light for good, humble and loyal and the embodiment of light in the darkest of circumstances.

The goliath, large in both stature and heart, who fought for his friends, for those gave him his strength.

The woman told of the separation they endured from some of their own, of enemies they fought, of mistakes that were made, the fright they had felt during the dragon attacks, and the weapons of power they travelled across oceans and continents to find in order to slay the mighty beasts. She spoke, too, with tears in her eyes, of fallen (or nearly fallen) comrades, of hope brought to fallen cities, and of vengeance justly delivered.

The story was long and not always easy to hear, drawing tears from the eyes of even the most sober of the patrons of the tavern at times. It was well into the night when the storyteller finished weaving her tale from her place on the stage, standing as she delivered her postlude.

“This is the tale of Vox Machina,” she said, her voice ringing clearly over the silent and still crowd, all still with rapt attention focused on her. “Friends and family until the end of time, their deeds legend across all of Exandria. Remember my words so you might tell others the tale you have heard tonight, even if it would be but a small sample of the story I have shared. Their bravery and determination and love lives on in you, those who will bring the tale to other places and times where this group of adventurers will be nothing more than myth.

“But let that myth inspire the next group of fighters, giving them hope that, even with odds stacked miles high against them, it is possible to prevail, to live, and to last beyond even the worst calamities. Let Vox Machina live by name and deeds, not as exalted individuals, but as people like you,” she paused and slowly swept the crowd with her eyes, “People just like you who did the best they could with what they had and accomplished something beyond what they could ever have imagined.

“They were powerful, but not omnipotent, they had fights and flaws and didn’t always get along. But by working together, by not being afraid to ask for help from friends and allies, they managed to defeat the greatest terror this land has known and live to spread that tale across all of Tal’dorei and beyond. Let this be a lesson to your children, your grandchildren, their children, and beyond that even those from the humblest beginnings, even the most flawed of people, even those looked down on by society or considered less than because of what they look like, where they come from, or how they act, can be _heroes_.”

The tall woman let the word ring out, almost echoing in the noiseless room, the silence almost growing in depth as the echo of her statement reverberated through the walls, into the very corners of the large room. When it finally died away she gave her closing remarks, one hand wrapped firmly around her staff, the other spread across her chest, a vision of her passion.

“Remember Vox Machina,” she said, her voice dropping so it was only just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let history obliterate their names and identities, but remember the hope that they brought Exandria, and the deeds they accomplished when they looked past their differences and found a common goal that was worth more than they could have imagined.”

A pregnant pause filled the room as the woman fell silent, as if the whole tavern wasn’t sure whether to clap or cheer, or offer a drink. Slowly, as if backing away from a predator, the woman brought both hands to her staff, bowing her head as if in prayer, both hands clutching the entwined wood. She stood there for a few seconds, reverent and stoic, then her ageless visage was lifted into view once again and the tears gathered in her eyes were clearly visible.

“Thank you,” she whispered, bending in polite reverence to her audience, the large headdress she wore looking like it would topple, though it stayed miraculously balanced.

Like a wave, tankards were raised in silence as the woman righted herself; the men and women gathered there toasted her and drank in honor of the fallen heroes of Tal’dorei.

The storyteller acknowledged them as she passed, nodding her head to them all, and shot the gathered people one last look over her shoulder before slipping out of the entrance and through the slowly-stilling city, into the nearby forest. There she disappeared into a tree with a flash of light and a small snap as the fabric of space split for her. A squirrel and several birds were startled to flee at the sound, but as the forest grew silent and remained so, they returned back to their previous lodgings, settling down for the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! *less than three* Let me know what you thought!
> 
> To see my ideas/theories, ramblings, and so much more, check out my tumblr: [dancerwrites](http://www.dancerwrites.tumblr.com)


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